MY FOUL MOUTH

I've turned into my father.

Anyone who knew my father will know that this is NOT a compliment.  As a matter of fact, any of my siblings reading this probably just shit themselves.  Watching football today, though, it's obvious I've inherited all of my father's gifts of language.

In other words, I can swear like a drunken soldier.

Okay, people who've known me pretty much all my life might be reading this and wondering how or why I think this is news since I swear every single day of my life.  What makes today a special occasion?  Truly, it's not like football is the only sport that brings out my colorful language.  I've been a hockey-swearer since long before I got my permit to drive.

For the last three weeks, though, sports in general and football in particular have been making me swear my head off.  Sometimes it's because a play sucks particularly badly, and sometimes it's because a play is phenomenally unbelievable.  Sometimes it the officiating, and sometimes it's the "professional" commentary.

Either way, the F-word has become even more of a regular in my vocabulary, especially on the weekends when sports are all over the television and I cannot escape myself.  I'm so bad that a friend gave me an F-Bomb ... really ... it looks like a bomb with an F on it.

I apologize.

It may be generational or it may be something of my own doing.  Either way, much like the father in A Christmas Story, I can weave a tapestry of foul language that might still be hanging in space over the Merrimack River.  If my sports teams keep playing the way they're playing (shut-outs one day, huge losses the next; fantastic passes one game, dropped soft passes the next), I should be getting plenty of practice using my foul mouth.